Dark
2003-09-21 - 12:47 a.m.

It has never been this dark before. Even the yellow-orange glow of the streetlights above seems to be absorbed into the inky blackness all around. The insects of the night play their symphony forte, drowning out the gentle wisp of the evening breeze. Bats, winged predators of the night, drift by, their banshee screeching occasionally rending the air.

There is a man on the dark street. He walks slowly and purposefully, his neck pinioning slowly from side to side. He watches for movement nearby, but sees none. He wonders why he is here, and what he is doing.

A drunk sits in an alley nearby, and watches the man walk by. If his eyes could focus, he would see that the man was thin, and that he walks with a slight limp. The spirits flowing through his veins have made focusing impossible. The drunk has only a vague impression of a shadowy figure.

The man walks further down the street, and the darkness seems to brighten. Neon signs surround him, each one promising either product or pleasure. He ignores them all. The street-corner women look at him, and a one mouths casual innuendoes. He hardly hears or sees them. He has somewhere else to be.

He wanders out of the center of town, away from the teeming sycophants of the night, and into the deeper, darker sections of the city. In these places, every alley could obscure death and every flashing light could reveal a new executioner. He ignores this. He has more important things on his mind.

A light rain begins falling, and he pulls his battered fedora down further over his face and clenches his coat tighter to his sides. Still, he keeps walking.

* * *

Night turns to day and day to night as regular as clockwork. Sometimes it rains, and sometimes it shines, but always, he walks. People sometimes join him, but they rarely stay long enough to know him. Some do, but they always disappear, all drawn by a desire to do something besides walk. Still, he walks on.

* * *

Today is different. Today, he feels he cannot walk another step. His limp has grown more pronounced, and he walks as if the weight of the world is on his shoulders. He takes four halting steps, pauses, and then falls face-forward. He is dead before his face buries itself in the dry, cracked earth of the countryside.

Some still talk about him, those who knew him as he was walking. They knew his name, but they did not know the man at all. It seems that now they never will.

* * *

Somewhere, there is an unmarked grave that holds an unknown man. May God forgive me if that man is me.